


Indiscretions

by argyle_avatar



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Future, Dom/sub, F/F, F/M, Infidelity, M/M, Pain, incest (intergenerational)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-28
Updated: 2012-12-28
Packaged: 2017-11-22 18:54:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/613111
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle_avatar/pseuds/argyle_avatar
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I'll do this on your terms," he says. "No one else's."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Indiscretions

**Author's Note:**

> There's a broader story here where Dirk died holding the gap between the alpha and beta universes open, and because of his Heart powers Bro somehow survived in his place. I was going to write that, and then I realized that I was just going to wind up writing really filthy Bro/Rose porn. Here it is. First posted on the kink meme.

"You come find me," he says afterwards, tapping a cigarette out of the pack from his pocket. "If you need it."

She touches her hair, pushes it back from her face. It hangs neatly there; her hair is not something that would disobey her. "Do you mean that?" she says, winding the laces of her shoes back around her ankles.

"Yes," he says, and his voice dismisses doubt. He looks at her, orange-sincere over the wings of his glasses. "You want someone to fuck you. You need someone to hurt you. Come find me."

"Why?" she asks. Her eyes are clear and violet and lovely, and she's trying her hardest to make them unpeturbed. 

"I like you," he says, stretching. He's older than her, and not as milky-pale; sun has burnt freckles into long streaks of damage on his arms, under the short sunbleached hairs. "This is a small world you're in." He holds the cigarette, looking at it but not lighting it. He puts it back in the pack. "I can keep a secret." 

He says them as three seperate answers, unconnected to each other. She nods, and accepts them as such.

"I'm not _straight_ ," she'd said, earlier, one foot hanging off the bed as he fucked her, even and merciless. Each thrust pushed the air out of her lungs in a high hurt sharp noise while her arms pushed her back, curling her body up under him, her back to his chest.

"Yeah," he'd said, licking at the knob of her neck. "Me neither," and when she'd made an incredulous sound, he'd wrapped an arm around her and said "Sometimes people want things," and put his hand down between her legs to hear the muffled, angry noise she made when she came.

\--

"You can never tell Dave," she'd said, laying with her hair smeared sweatily into her eyes. There was cum on her thigh, smeared wetly up from her knee. There were little bruises, fingertip-sized, in the soft space above her hipbones.

He snorted. "Yeah," he said, "I go around telling my little brother who I fuck," and at her look, said, flatly, "I don't tell Dave shit, Lalonde."

"I'm gathering that," she said, cooly, like she wasn't sweat-drenched and naked from a situation that was a start-to-end grade-a bad idea. He got the feeling that she was the kind of girl who had a lot of bad ideas. And looked unruffled through most of them. 

Ruffling her was a project. Not his project. Hers, maybe. He watched the muscles of her skinny shoulders shift as she sat up, grimacing, wiped her leg off on the corner of his blanket. He wondered half-heartedly if there was even a place to do laundry on this goddamn meteor.

"Come over here," he said, gesturing with his hand, and she looked at him, quirked her mouth, and said, "This is the only situation I've ever been in where a post-coital cuddle is ethically dubious."

He snorted. "Not any worse than the rest of it."

"Not any better," she said, but she went, and she kind of folded up against his shoulder, the hard line of her back softening. 

His fingers trailed up her thigh, and she said, "See? Dangerous ground." and then caught her breath when his hand paused on the sticky spot, thumb digging in, another row of little fingertip bruises for her to see tomorrow. 

"I'll do this on your terms," he said, into her hair. "No one else's."  
\---

"What about Jake?" she says, later, tracing her hand up the worn muscled slope of his torso. What would be ripped for a teenager looks haggard on a man nearing forty. He's got the same kind of scars she's seen on Karkat, blade scars, pink and brown instead of gray. There's an interesting starburst on his shoulder that might, she thinks, be an actual bullet wound. 

"Fucked him till he cried," he says, and when her hand stills - her body still goes cold sometimes when he says these things - he curls his lip, amused, and says "Endorphins, kid, not hurt. I'm pretty much a buttfucking professional, I know the line." He stretches under her hand. He still has his jeans on, and he's the only person who would wear leather jeans on a spaceship. "Though maybe he deserves to cry," he says, mildly. "For Dirk."

She stills again. "You're a little bit of a sociopath," she says, and she keeps her voice cool when she says it.

He looks at her, amused. His glasses are over on the pillow, but it doesn't make him look any more exposed. His features are even and leonine; his sideburns are almost reddish. Her brother Dave looks like a salt shaker with hair when his glasses are off, and Dirk looked like some kind of woodland creature, pale and fluffy. "A," he says, holding up a finger, "Not even remotely accurate. And B," he holds up a second finger. "If I was. You had to get it from somewhere, girl."

Which is the closest they ever get to discussing that one out loud. She slides her hand down his stomach and unbuttons his jeans anyway.

\--

He's got her wrists pinned in one big, strong, scarred hand, pinioned above her head, held hard to the headboard. Her back is slight and arched under his; his cock is in her ass. It does hurt, it does, she finds herself sobbing with it, it's a big, stretching, wrong hurt. It's invasive. She shakes under it. She doesn't try to flinch away, though.

"Never had anything up there, huh," he says, stroking his free hand down her side, impersonal and kind. 

"Just - Kanaya," she says, gasping. "Trolls are narrow. At the tip."

"Yeah," he says, still stroking her side, and then says "Deep breath," and pushes in a little further. She turns her head and sinks her teeth into her arm, whimpering, and he says, "Still okay?". She nods, fiercely, and he laughs and takes her hand, presses it between her legs, says, "Rub yourself, it helps," and when she gets a shaky finger on her clit it's like a switch has flipped, unbearable shading down to icy, intense, intensely good, and she makes an entirely different sort of sound, arching up under him.

He laughs, low in her ear, and says "That's what I thought." He runs both hands down her back, even, assessing, and when he says, "You're beautiful, Rose," she accepts it as a rational and well-considered judgment.

When he slaps her ass, hard, with the flat of her hand she screams and comes around him - too tight, too _tight_ , it hurts to clench down around him like that. What really gets her later, though, is the way he gathered her up, hands under her knees, laid them down on their sides on the bed. How she curled up under the curve of his arm and accepted the intrusion - not stretchy-painful anymore, just good, just heatedly nice. He holds her open with his hand under her thigh, lays with his cheek pressed against her hair, breathes her in until he comes.

(He won't come in her - vagina, she says, strict with herself, because human euphemisms are distasteful and troll euphemisms are inaccurate - but he comes in her ass, grunting, pushing her down with his hand on her hip until she feels the wet hot wash of it. When he pulls out he presses a finger to her, feels it sticky there. Kanaya is a woman of dignity and propriety who would not - despite all suggestions - treat her girlfriend as a bucket. 

She forgets it's happened when she dresses, and then has to wash it off in the shower, slimey and unpleasant. She should feel bad about it. Instead she leans against the shower wall, forehead pressed to the tile, and fumbles at her clit rough and furious until she comes again, clenching hard around sore muscles.)

\--

The thing is that this is not her whole life at all. She has work to do on the meteor, in the lab and in the library: more, now that Dirk is dead and Roxy is there to help her, and Jake is there to get in her way. The rendezvous with the ship is a bare six months away, and there are things that have to be ready when they arrive, for when they turn and fight in this universe like the other kids did in theirs.

Kanaya comes to her room after dinner - they've kept the same daytime for two years, in artificial light - and kisses her, soft with a hint of fangs, pushes her cool gray hands under Rose's tunic and pulls her close. Rose lets her; Rose puts her hands in Kanaya's hair and takes her horns and pushes her down on the bed, swings her leg over Kanaya's elegant hips, kisses her long gray neck. Kanaya sees the fingertip bruises on Rose's hips, the bite mark on her shoulder - human teeth, human hands - and frowns, but Kanaya is a troll, and is careful about her quadrants. Sometimes that means not asking the wrong kind of question. Rose is, for once, grateful for the troll concept of tact.

It is a different thing, she thinks, as she licks a long line down Kanaya's lovely breastbone, across the planes of her abdomen, and sucks contemplatively at the tip of her bulge. She doesn't know if it's quadrants - she's not a troll, for all the times that she's willing to act like one. But it is a wholly different thing from the way Kanaya arches her back, graceful as rippling water, when Rose slides two fingers into her nook. Maybe it's a human thing. Whatever it is, Rose isn't willing to stop yet.

\---


End file.
